


Far Cry 5 Drabbles and Prompts

by thatviciousvixen



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Gen, M/M, Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatviciousvixen/pseuds/thatviciousvixen
Summary: A place for the Far Cry 5 drabbles I write on Tumblr. The beginning of each drabble will be marked with each pairing, rating and any warnings that may apply!





	Far Cry 5 Drabbles and Prompts

**Author's Note:**

> You know you haven't posted a fic in a longass time when you forget how to add your blog link to a post. WOO BOY. Anyway I'm 

Wyatt doesn’t even realize he’s doing it these days. It’s such a force of habit that if it weren’t for the sympathetic glances from the people around him he’d forget about the mark altogether. But here he is, walking through Fall’s End with his hands behind his back, the fingers of his right arm circled around the wrist of his left as his thumb strokes the words marked into his flesh. Touching the strange scars that have grown with him throughout his life, appearing in his youth and forming into sharp lines that twisted and connected until they formed a phrase:

_we’re just having a conversation friend i promise_

It sounds cryptic. Like he’s going to walk into the middle of a brawl involving the person he’s supposed to be linked with on a deep, cosmic level. He supposed he’s lucky, though. Most people get a word, an exclamation, something simple that anyone could say. Wyatt has something unique; a full sentence that will make it that much easier to know his Person when they speak it. 

He walks through town with his head in the clouds, barely paying attention to the world around him as he wanders towards the Spread Eagle. He’s felt...heavy all day. Off. At first he’d attributed it to the oppressive July heat, but even under the industrial fans of the garage he’d been suspiciously out of sorts. It was sort of like the feeling you got one you could feel someone watching you - a prickling at the back of his neck, wide green eyes shifting from place to place as if searching for the intruder. It had gotten so bad that Carl had sent him home early to sleep it off. He’ll get home at some point, but first he needs a stiff drink.

“No one will die if they don’t get their oil changed today,” his boss had chuckled in that loud, booming voice of his. Carl is a big man, tall and round with pink skin and a white beard that flutters as he speaks. He’s known his soulmate since he was twelve. He has no idea how it feels to make it this far without them, to wonder if they’re really out there. When he clapped his hand to Wyatt’s shoulder it had sent the Wyatt stumbling forward to catch his balance. “Probably got some sort of bug. You’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

So here he is, walking through town with his head so low his messy brown curls are falling into his face. While he knows thirty-five isn’t exactly old he certainly fucking feels that way. The raised words under his thumb only drive that point further home, reminding him that he’s adrift in the world. Anchorless.

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Now get the hell out of my bar before I force you out.”

Wyatt stops at Mary May’s voice, frantic and high from within the Eagle. It sets his heart racing in his chest. He knows she’s been struggling lately, waves of those cultists coming down on her in an attempt to close the bar. He can hear the shouts through town when he’s working late nights, the occasional gunshot as she chases them off with her daddy’s rifle. Mary May Fairgrave certainly knows how to hold her own, but she shouldn’t have to. 

Picking up speed to clear the last few yards to the bar, Wyatt pushes past the rickety wooden door to step inside. Mary May is on her guard behind the bar, two men standing before her with wildly different body language. The first (seeingly the younger of the two) stands with his arms folded, rocking his weight from hip to hip. He seems erratic. Agitated. Underneath his sharp navy blue suit is a man ready to strike, slowly coming undone no matter how precise his hairstyle or how expensive his shoes. Wyatt immediately knows that he’s the one to watch out for. 

The other...gives off a vibe that Wyatt can’t place, but to be completely honest he feels important. Singular. Like everything in the world is leading him to this man, to this moment. And then the man looks at him and speaks.

“We’re just having a conversation, friend. I promise.”

Wyatt’s world narrows. Spins. Everything is the man standing before him, a curious and vaguely worried expression on his face as he watches Wyatt sway on the spot. “Are you alright?” he asks, expression soft and concerned behind his eerie yellow sunglasses.

He’d planned his entire life what he would say. Thought of quirky responses, code words, a way for his soulmate to know for sure. But here, in the moment, all he can choke out is, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The man stops. His eyes, whatever colour they are behind the amber glasses, go wide as his hand flies over to touch his wrist. The other man in the nice suit stops as well, looking surprised. “Joseph? Isn’t that...”

Amber glasses - Joseph - steps close, reaching out. Wyatt feels like he’s moving through a thick fog as he exposes his wrist, shows the words etched into his skin. They seem angry, livid red slashes across his skin as if they’d just been carved into his flesh. They burn and ache, hot red pain that he can barely be bothered to notice. 

“You’re Joseph Seed,” Wyatt murmurs. Of all the fucking people in the world. “It’s you. I can’t...I’ve been looking for so long.”

Joseph is stepping closer. Reaching for him. As his hands reach up to touch Wyatt’s face there’s an odd sensation that feels suspiciously like coming home, like he’s finally figured everything out. His own hands fly up to hold tight to Joseph’s wrists, clinging as if something might take him away. His Person. His Soulmate.

And he knows he should be scared. Knows that this is the man responsible for all of the pain and suffering that’s taken root in his home, for all the blood and broken families. But in this moment, as Joseph pulls him close and presses their foreheads together, he’s saddled with the sick realization that he would do anything - anything - for this man.


End file.
